


Saint (gift four)

by crazyparakiss



Series: A Kiss Christmas, December Gifts 2017 [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 15:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12987291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: Draco digs his fingers into the thick cable-knit of Potter’s cream jumper, drawing him closer. Kissing the stranger wearing his lover’s face.





	Saint (gift four)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capitu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capitu/gifts).



> Found Capitu's old prompt at HarryDracoMpreg and remember how I wanted to write it then, and thought well I'm gonna write it now.
> 
> 2015 HDMPreg   
> Memory!Loss fic. There was an accident (or an attack) and Draco lost all his memories of his life with Harry. Now Harry's raising a family, living with a husband who doesn't remember him or their child (or children).
> 
> Happy Christmas, BB, you're always such a joy <3333 All mistakes are my own as this work is not beta'd. Hope you enjoy!

  
  


A black raven, set against a colourless sky--for the rest of Draco’s life that image will haunt him more than any grim, dementor, or faceless mask of a Death Eater. Ravens are the bringers of bad news--the words they carry shatter worlds. 

 

He is pulled from his morose thoughts by a warm cup of tea, gently pressed to his cheek. “Thought this might cheer you up,” Weasley’s smile is kinder now than Draco has ever see it, and he accepts the drink with a grateful grin. They’ve never been mates, but in this moment they both could use a friend. 

 

Draco’s takes a drink of the over-steeped tea, but doesn’t comment on it’s flavour. He looks to the large, foreboding double doors that hold the patients of the A&E. “Have the Healers said anything to you?” Weasley sits heavily in the seat beside him, taking a sip of his own drink--grimacing at the taste--and Draco can tell he’s avoiding his gaze. “Just tell me, please.” 

 

A sigh makes its way out of Weasley’s freckled throat, his blue eyes close for a moment, and when they open he settles them over Draco--watching, impassively, while he relays his worrisome news. “There’s been damage,” he settles his cup of tea on a table with a disgusted look. Whether for the contents of his cup or for the situation, Draco is not sure. “It was another of those raids. Was supposed to be a bunch of kids playing at evil, more bark than bite--but one of them bit him better than anticipated.” Weasley’s gleaming wedding band catches the light when he rubs at his thick, ginger beard. “There’s memory damage, Draco.” A dark chuckle tumbles out of Weasley’s mouth, and he admits, “Once upon a time, I’d have loved for Harry to forget you. To forget that he wanted to build a life with you.” It stings to hear those words, but the sting lesses when Weasley turns a sympathetic eye on Draco, “But not now, Draco. Now I’d give anything for him to remember you.” 

 

_ So would I,  _ Draco thinks. “Thank you, Ron.” 

 

*

 

“You understand, Mr Potter,” one of the Healers is saying when Draco and Weasley walk into Potter’s private room. 

 

“I don’t understand at all,” Potter sighs, frustrated, and his hands scratch at the bandages that hide most of his unruly hair. “I just want to go to my flat in London and forget all about this.” Draco winces, Potter’s not lived in London for well over a decade. Not since...

 

“Harry, mate, you haven’t lived in London since Ted was a wee thing,” Weasley tries for a teasing tone, but Draco can see pain wrinkled around his eyes. “The boy’s twenty-one now, and nearly out of his apprenticeship with Bill.” 

 

Potter’s looking strangely at Weasley, and his familiar eyes glance towards Draco--but the gleam of them is a stranger’s gleam. “What’s he doing here,” Potter demands, voice cold as it hasn’t been in years. Draco closes his eyes against the harshness of the sound. 

 

Weasley’s hand on his shoulder is a welcome comfort, letting him know--in silence--that this will be okay. “I told you that you were married, Harry.” Again, Weasley’s tone aims for jovial but falls flat. 

 

Potter’s eyes are wide behind his still horrid glasses, and Draco hopes they are wide from dawning remembrance. However, when his lips go thin with rage Draco knows what’s coming. “Get him out of here,” Potter’s voice is quiet, furious. Draco is stung. It brings back all the memories of their years spent in hostility. Reminds him of all the days spent making Potter realise he was worthy of love--that Draco Malfoy, too, could be gentle creature worthy of Potter’s affections. 

 

“C’mon, Dracon,” Weasley murmurs, apology in his words. “I’ll talk to him. Until he’s grown less stubborn you go home, tend to the children.” Draco would normally give Weasley a scathing retort for treating him like some house-wife of old, but he doesn’t. Instead, his grey gaze drifts towards Potter--longing wrinkling his pale brows--sighing out before he finally turns to leave. 

 

*

 

“I’m home,” Draco calls when he wanders in, through the cottage door, he’s glad for the fire that’s crackling merrily in the hearth. The warmth draws some of the chill from his skin, if not his soul, as he makes his way deeper into the home. One of the twins, Lyra, is lying sprawled across the sofa sleeping. Her dark hair is a mass of wild curls over the cream of the upholstery, and her small mouth is open, leaking drool on the fine fabrics. Draco doesn’t have the heart to wake her, he can’t find it in himself to be disgusted with the sight of her--because she exists. She’s still real so what he had with Potter must not have been a dream, and he knows that--soon--they will all wake from this cruel nightmare. 

 

“Dad,” comes Regulus’s deep voice, and Draco tries not to wince at the way puberty is wreaking havoc on his son’s once soft vocal cords. He smiles, as well as he can, when he faces where Regulus is standing--a curious gleam to his pale green eyes. “Everything all right?” 

 

_ No _ . “Yes,” Draco lies, stepping closer to wrap his son--who is growing by the day--in a comforting embrace. Though, Draco cannot say who he intends to comfort, Regulus or himself. “Uncle Weasel will be by later with good news, I’m sure,” he grins, pulling back and patting Regulus’s pale gold hair. “Your stubborn father will not part with his life so easily.” 

 

The smirk he wears is all Potter when he replies, “Duh, he survived a Dark Lord. He can survive a prank.” 

 

Leonis comes running into the room, his face ruddy with cold and his grey eyes bright with anticipation as he throws himself at his father, “Daddy-D, you’re home.” 

 

“I’m home,” Draco smooths a hand through his dark hair. “Were you good while I was away?” 

 

“Of course,” but Draco doesn’t believe him when he grins. 

 

“Your father won’t be back tonight, so what says we dine out at The Three Broomsticks?” The suggestion rouses Lyra who shouts in excitement. 

 

*

 

He’s resting his head against the cool wall of his bathroom when Weasley Apparates Potter home, three days later. “Draco,” he calls, warm, familiar, as if they are mates. That’s all it takes for Draco to know that Potter still hasn’t come out of his loss of memory. 

 

“I’ll be down in a moment,” he calls back while he stands on shaky legs--flushing the sick down the toilet. He casts a freshening charm over himself before he heads down the carpeted stairs. Potter’s standing stiffly in the cozy living room, looking--in suspicion--at all of the pictures that decorate the walls. Weasley is pointing out faces, putting names to them, and Draco is struck with how tragic this all is. He doesn’t speak, instead he chooses to observe while Weasley leads Potter through this foreign life. 

 

“You’ve got six total,” Weasley begins, laughing when Potter startles. “You’re a randy bugger, mate.” Then he shoots a smirk at Draco, “And that one is fertile soil for the seed, if you get my drift.” 

 

Draco rolls his eyes, “A giant could decode your crass meaning.” 

 

That pulls another laugh from Weasley and another frown from Potter. “Yeah, well, you two go at it like Kneazles--and breed like them, too.” 

 

“Dad,” a voice comes from the front corridor causing Draco’s throat to seize in worry. Weasley appears spooked by the sudden appearance of a child as well--they’d planned this homecoming when the younger children were at Mother’s for a visit and the others were back to school, where they could make use of the dormitories if they desired. Regulus and Polaris had been grateful for the excuse of school. Lyra, Leonis, and Sirius were pleased to see their grandmother, but resentful that they were not welcome to stay home to help greet their father. Draco and Weasley, as well as Granger, Mother, and the other gingers, decided it was best to give Potter a few hours home--time to adjust--before the children climbed all over him in excitement. One child was forgotten in all this planning--the one Draco didn’t think would suddenly make her way home. 

 

Their oldest...

 

“Mum,” Potter whispers when she rounds the corner. His green eyes are wide, shocked by the appearance of his beloved daughter. The one who most certainly shares Lily Potter’s face. What makes her part Malfoy is the colourless blonde of her hair, and the silver undertone of her pale green eyes. 

 

“Delphini,” she corrects her father, smiling gently as she approaches Draco. “I got your Owl.” Delphini doesn’t sound pleased, “Did you really expect I’d stay away?” 

 

“I didn’t want to overwhelm him,” Draco admits, apologetic as he draws his daughter to his chest. “Where’s Teddy?” 

 

“Back at the flat in Egypt--he’s still got work,” she waves a dismissive hand. “He said he’ll pop round at the weekend when he’s a day off.” Then she’s looking back at Potter and her eyes are soft, sad. “How’re you feeling, Saint?” Potter’s face goes slack with confusion and he glances about, looking for the elusive person Delphini is speaking to. Her voice hitches, “You really don’t remember...do you?” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Potter shuffles awkwardly. 

 

“It’s okay,” Delphini assures, but Draco doesn’t feel okay in the slightest. 

 

*

 

“This is all of us last holiday--as you can see Sirius was being a shit,” Delphini explains, flipping through one of the many photo albums and Potter stares at each page looking hopelessly bewildered. 

 

Draco can’t stand to watch, so he goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Weasley follows. “It’s hard, isn’t it?” 

 

The question is rhetorical, but even still Draco answers. “Yes.” 

 

“If you need Hermione and I to take him for a few days or weeks, let me know--there’s no shame in admitting you need help in this.” 

 

Draco appreciates the sentiment, “I can’t do that to him, or the kids. I have to see this through.” 

 

“Regardless, the Floo is always open.” 

 

“Thank you,” Draco replies with feeling. 

 

*

 

Potter seems overwhelmed with just Delphini so Draco rings his mother, at the Floo, seeing if she will keep the three youngest children for at least a night. Readily she agrees and offers help that Draco turns down. Thanking her for just having the kids for the evening. 

 

Delphini has long since retired to bed and Draco doesn’t know how to begin with Potter when it is just them. “I’ve made up the spare room,” Draco informs him. “You can sleep there or I can sleep there--since I’m sure you won’t want to share the bed.” 

 

Potter’s expression is unreadable. Draco wishes he knew him still. This man is a stranger with his beloved’s face, and it’s heartbreaking. “Thank you, I’ll take the spare room.” 

 

Draco nods, moving to exit the room--intent on bed--when Potter’s voice comes, “How did it begin?” 

 

_ With a challenge _ , he thinks, knowing what Potter’s referring to, but he replies, “I forget.” A chuckle, dark and tragic, leaves his throat, “One day you hated me, the next you couldn’t live without me--and now you hate me again.” He releases a musing hum, “Interesting how things always come back round again.” 

 

Potter doesn’t reply. 

 

*

 

Lyra, Leonis, and Sirius are home in three days time. Potter’s not going to suddenly wake from this nightmare; Draco, inexplicably lonely, misses his children. Sirius cries while he wraps his small arms around Draco’s slim neck, burrowing his face into Draco’s shoulder. Toddlers don’t understand the complexities of life, they only understand abandonment--this makes Draco wretched, knowing his youngest is made uneasy by these circumstances. There are things Draco cannot protect his children from, and it makes him realise he’s helpless. 

 

“Shhh,” Draco soothes, running his hand up Sirius’s back. “Daddy isn’t going to leave you that long, again, I promise.” 

 

Potter shuffles nervously in the open arch, between the family dining area and the family room, the motion catches the attention of Leonis--Potter’s doppelganger. A bright grin steals across his face, before Draco can stop him Leonis is making a mad dash for Potter. “Saint,” he shouts, throwing his arms around Potter’s middle. Grinning up at his father, who looks down on the boy as if he is a stranger. “Did you miss us, we missed you.” 

 

Green eyes grow soft, fond, and Potter has not lost his goodness, Draco notices, when he lifts his hands to pat Leonis’s unruly hair. “I did, I missed you very much.” 

 

Lyra is less taken with this man she doesn’t know--the one who wears her father’s face but lacks the habits that Draco only noticed when they had gone. “What’s my name,” she demands of Potter, suddenly--her voice sharp. 

 

He turns from Leonis, staring at her, and Draco can tell he hasn’t an answer. Lyra can sense it, too, for she bursts into tears. Nine-year-old rage exploding out of her when she screams, “I wish you’d have died.” 

 

“Lyra,” Draco reprimands, hurt she could say such a thing, “Do not speak to your father like that.” 

 

“He’s not my Saint,” Lyra rages. “My Saint is gone, Daddy. I want my Saint back.” Leonis is the one who rushes for her, wrapping his arms around his twin, crying with her even while trying to give her comfort. “I miss Saint,” Lyra sobs quietly. “I want Saint to come home.” 

 

“He is home,” Leonis, foolish child whispers. “He’s just a little different is all.” 

 

“Different isn’t good,” Lyra hisses. “I want the same old thing.” 

 

*

 

The twins take dinner upstairs, and Draco--for once--does not fight them. They need time alone, to sort their thoughts. Sirius is too little to understand, as a result he takes dinner with Draco and Potter, at the dining table--he’s smashing his mash into the table, but Draco doesn’t reprimand him. 

 

“Why Saint,” Potter enquires, interrupting the near silence of the room. Sirius is still squealing, in delight, when he plies more food onto his tabletop masterpiece. 

 

“Pardon,” Draco glances up from the mess their son is making. 

 

“Why do they call me Saint?” There’s accusation in Potter’s eyes. 

 

“Ask them,” Draco breathes out. Exhausted from memories of what was--what will probably never be again. “Come on, love,” Draco sings at Sirius. Turning his attention from Potter, to focus on what he knows. “Time for a bath.” 

 

Potter doesn’t follow him up. Draco thinks that’s for the best when he hears the twins talking, in low voices about how they wish things were the way they used to be. “I want Regulus to come home,” Lyra confides in her brother. “He’s a lot like Saint used to be.” Draco’s heartbroken to know that his children miss their father so intensely they will accept their brother to assume the role. Foolish things they are. 

 

Sirius splashes about the bath of Draco’s and Potter’s private bathroom. He squeals in delight when the little tablets Draco gives him, to drop into the water, create various colours and foam creatures. One grows in the form of an orange and red phoenix. “Sain,” he giggles in delight, pointing at the creature. Draco’s smile is hurt, because he knows his son’s broken word is meant for Potter. A Potter this child might never know. 

 

“Yes, love, Saint and his bloody phoenix,” Draco chuckles, trying for normalcy. 

 

*

 

“Has he had any moments of confusion or disorientation,” the Healer--Healer Morris--asks Draco, while he reads through a chart in his old, wrinkled hands. 

 

“No, not that I’ve noticed,” Draco answers honestly. 

 

“Has he had any moments of rage or frustration? Do we need to provide something to settle his nerves--we don’t like to, of course, because we aren’t sure how calming draughts affect retrograde amnesia.” The steady scratch of a Quick-Quotes-Quill grates on Draco’s frayed nerves. 

 

“You could ask  _ me _ ,” Potter huffs, annoyance heavy in his tone. “I’ve lost my damn memory, not my fucking mind. I am not confused or disoriented and I’m not going to go around beating the kids I don’t recognise,” he sneers. “I’ve not even beat this prat, so it’s safe to assume I’m all right.” 

 

“Forgive me, Mr Potter,” Healer Morris doesn’t sound all that apologetic. 

 

Potter rolls his eyes, “Do you know when I’m going to remember?” 

 

“You were hit with magic we don’t understand. We can only suggest that you live life as you were before, try not to exert yourself, and hope for the best,” Healer Morris admits with a sympathetic expression. Then he glances between them, “Counseling might also help--for the both of you.” 

 

Draco is a Malfoy--he’s never believed in inviting an outsider in to observe them. To  _ fix _ them. 

 

*

 

Regulus comes home without Polaris and Draco frowns, it’s been weeks since Potter’s been home and the boys haven’t written much. Nor have they come round. “Where’s your brother,” Draco demands even as the twins wrap their older brother in a double hug--shouting their excitement to see him. 

 

“Still at the school,” Regulus shrugs, bending down to lift Sirius--who is sad to be left out of the excitement. “He said he might come at the weekend.” 

 

Draco wants to shout so many things. He wants to tell his son they moved to this little town to be close to their children. Hogsmeade was supposed to keep their children close enough to see on a regular basis. Hogsmeade residents were the only ones allowed such a courtesy. And now his children are becoming strangers. All because they cannot bear to look at a stranger wearing the face of their father. Instead of screaming about this Draco allows it to drop, settling for, “I see.” 

 

In Regulus he can see regret and pity--Draco wants none of it. 

 

*

 

“C’mon, Leo, pass  _ him  _ the mash,” Regulus commands of the brother who is staring at Potter in suspicion. 

 

“I don’t want to pass anything to  _ him _ ,” Leonis pouts. 

 

“You have to be nice to  _ him _ ,” Lyra reminds Leonis. “Dad said so.” Potter pushes out of his chair, at the head of the table, and stomps out of the room without a word. 

 

“He’s not  _ him _ ,” Draco stresses. “I know, I know better than all of you--but call him as you would’ve your father. It might bring him back to us faster.” 

 

“If he ever comes back,” Lyra hisses in defiance. Draco ignores her. Standing to follow Potter. 

 

He finds him in the spare room, the one he’s lived in for a near month. “Potter,” he begins, fidgeting in the doorway. “They just don’t know how to deal with you.” 

 

Potter’s laugh is hollow, “I noticed.” He glances up from his hands, and Draco swallows when he sees the anguish. “I always wanted to be a dad. Now I can’t remember a fucking moment of it and my kids look at me like I’m some fiend who killed their Saint.” His laugh is dark, “I don’t understand how I wound up doing this with you. I don’t know what would possess me to touch you, in the first place, but when I look at them I see myself and I know I must have.” 

 

_ Often and vigorously. _

 

“I’m sorry you had to wake to me,” Draco admits. “Maybe this would be less hard if it were Ginny.” He dies a little to admit that, because he’s often wondered if Potter would rather be with her. Breed with her and give her all that Draco has been given by Potter’s love. He would burn worlds to stop it, but if it meant this never had to happen to his children, to his Potter, then maybe he would make that sacrifice. 

 

“Probably,” Potter admits, sliding a hand over his short beard. 

 

_ * _

 

Polaris doesn’t come home until Winter Hols, three and a half months after Potter’s accident. He is the one who looks exactly as Potter did at 15, the one who should’ve been named James--or so Potter has often said. And he watches his father with such rage, such hate it makes Potter take a step back after they’ve been introduced. 

 

“I’m tired,” he mutters. “I’ll talk to you later.” It’s a lie, Draco knows. He can tell when his son looks to the floor, avoiding their eyes. He’s as easy to read as Potter. 

 

Even still Draco doesn’t try to stop him as he makes his way up the stairs. 

 

“We should’ve named that one James,” Potter murmurs, causing Draco’s heart to speed up. “He looks just like my dad.” 

 

“He looks just like you,” Draco whispers, wanting to put his hand into Potter’s--however, he refrains. 

 

“Just like me, too,” Potter chuckles darkly. “I can’t lie for beans.” 

 

*

 

Weasley brings his family for the holiday. Christmas Eve at the Malfoy-Potter house is a tradition they’ve held since Draco started sharing Potter’s bed. Weasley is the only one not acting like this is a funeral. 

 

“Harry,” he booms, drawing Potter into a quick hug. “You’re looking more grey than last time I saw you.” 

 

“Living with Malfoy will do that to you,” Potter quips to the momentary amusement of Weasley and Granger. The joy is short-lived, however, when he turns to Granger and Weasley’s children. “Let’s get the hard part out of the way,” Potter murmurs. “Introduce me to your kids.” 

 

Granger’s dark brown eyes well with emotion, and her voice cracks when she points to the fifteen-year-old girl, “Rose.” And then to the thirteen-year-old boy, “Hugo.” 

 

Draco slips off for the kitchen, needing to escape while Potter talks to the children and Granger. 

 

Weasley finds him there. Rests a broad, warm hand on Draco’s bony shoulder when he whispers, “It’ll get better.” 

 

“So they keep telling me,” Draco snaps. Then apologetic murmurs, “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry.” He rearranges the lovely decorated biscuits on a nice dish--just for something to do. “I miss him.” 

 

“I miss him, too,” Weasley admits, gaze soft. It grows to pity when Draco places a pale hand to the small, unnoticeable swell in his lower stomach. Weasley reaches to touch him without permission, but Draco knows he means no harm. His eyes are wide, pitying, when he whispers, “How long?” 

 

“It would’ve been the time just before the accident,” Draco confides, exhausted.  

 

“Shit,” Weasley mutters. “Draco, what can I do?” 

 

He hasn’t an answer, all he can do is rest his head on Weasley’s shoulder while Weasley is still touching Draco’s secret. That’s how Potter finds them. They don’t spring apart as if they are guilty, but Draco feels like a shit when he notices the dark expression that Potter wears while his eyes drift between Draco and Weasley. 

 

“The kids are ready for presents,” Potter tells them. 

 

“We’re coming,” Weasley grins. 

 

Potter doesn’t respond. 

 

*

 

The evening is as pleasant as can be expected, but it’s made more awkward and tense by the way Potter watches Weasley—with accusing eyes. When his verdant gaze slips to Draco there’s an unreadable swirl of emotions that causes a shiver to run down Draco’s spine. 

 

After they say their goodbyes, Weasley lingers, and again reiterates, “The Floo is always open.” 

 

That makes Potter appear even more furious. “Goodnight, Ron,” Potter’s voice is cold, but it makes Weasley grin in a knowing manner. 

 

The Floo flares neon green around him, and in an instant Weasley is gone. Leaving Draco with Potter, alone, as the children have already made their way up to bed. Sirius is already asleep, but the rest of them are most likely tinkering with their gifts. 

 

“Is this your doing,” Potter demands, unmindful of the children upstairs. Draco throws up a hasty silencing charm, glad of the forethought when Potter advances on him—gripping him on the upper arms and shaking Draco. “Did you do this evil to me, hoping I would forget your indiscretions?” 

 

“Potter,” he pleads, wincing as Potter’s grip grows stronger. 

 

“Malfoy,” he hisses into Draco’s face. Breath sweet with the hints of Christmas pudding. “You stole my children from me, along with my best friend. How could you?” His hand is hot against Draco’s flesh, shoved under his thin-knit jumper, stroking Draco’s skin as he hasn’t in months. He’s touching the swell of life, almost reverent, as he sobs, “Even if I don’t remember you— _ us— _ my body recalls the way you once soothed it.” His lips catch over the swell of Draco’s sharp cheek. “I still feel hurt you let another man’s seed rest where mine belongs.” 

 

“What are you on about,” Draco demands, confusion heavy in his words. “There is no man other than you. I would never prostrate myself before another,” Draco digs his fingers into the thick cable-knit of Potter’s cream jumper, drawing him closer. Kissing the stranger wearing his lover’s face. “For you, Harry, I cast aside my pride. I would never do that for another. Never.” Then with an infuriated hiss he adds, “Especially not the fucking Weasel.” 

 

Potter presses Draco down, urging him onto the sofa, his lips are searing yet gentle. In a way only Potter can manage. “I saw him touching you, I saw you leaning on him, and I couldn’t...I couldn’t stand it.” He pulls at Draco’s trousers, sliding them down Draco’s slim thighs, Draco doesn’t stop him. Can’t when Potter puts his burning palm around Draco’s cock and begins bringing him off in familiar, rough strokes. “God, Malfoy, I think I love you.” 

 

“Of course you do, Potter—you’re a Saint,” Draco murmurs, breathy, against Potter’s jaw. He comes, too overwhelmed by his orgasm to notice that Potter has gone still. 

 

“Draco,” Potter sounds confused, his hands are on the ridge of growth that is the early stages of pregnancy. “What is going on?” 

 

“I’ve just had an orgasm,” Draco gives a dry chuckle. “I know you’ve lost your memory, but surely you know what an orgasm is.”

 

“Lost my...” Potter trails off, then with a hard tone demands, “What are you fucking talking about?” Then, “And since when is it Christmas?” Draco is suddenly aware this is his Potter. The Potter he’s missed since September. 

 

“Harry,” Draco breathes, sitting up—awkwardly due to his position, “do you not remember the last few months?” 

 

Bewildered Potter murmurs, “No.” 

 

*

 

Healer Morris hums, his breath smells of eggnog and whiskey, and he’s in the ugliest Christmas jumper Draco has ever seen, but he’s too worried about Potter to comment. “This is not unheard of, people come out of amnesia for no reason and often forget the time of their memory loss.” 

 

“Will he go back to how he was,” Draco asks with worry. He cannot have Potter back only to lose him again. 

 

“Most likely not,” Healer Morris responds. “We will still monitor him and have check-ups, but I believe Mr Potter will be just fine.” 

 

“Thank heaven,” Draco whispers, and Potter’s fingers close around his hand, lending him all the comfort he can. 

 

*

 

On Christmas Day, Potter sits by the tree watching as his children bumble down the stairs. They all regard him with varying levels of distrust, and Draco notes the sorrow that crinkles the skin around Potter’s eyes. 

 

“He doesn’t care,” Lyra is grumbling in response to something Regulus says to her—too low for Draco to catch. 

 

“Even if he’s not Saint,” Regulus sighs, like a father. “Go on and give it to him.” She shuffles closer, Leonis at her side for support, and Sirius is running after them, on short, stumpy legs, trying to keep up. 

 

“Happy Christmas,” Lyra tells Potter with a grudging tone. Leonis mutters a similar sentiment, but he seems embarrassed rather than spiteful. 

 

Potter accepts the silver and gold wrapped package with a quiet nod, delicately opening the box to find an ornate frame. His eyes go wide and wet at the image he sees, and when Draco presses closer to have a look he understands why. Nineteen-year-old Potter is wrapping his arms around nineteen-year-old Draco, nuzzling at Draco’s throat while Draco tilts his head back with a laugh. 

 

“Only Saint Potter can love and forgive Draco Malfoy,” Potter whispers, the rough pads of his fingers touching the image as it moves through them sharing a kiss. 

 

Lyra’s crying, suddenly, throwing her arms around Potter. Hugging him as if he’s been gone for centuries, and Draco supposes, to the children, it does feel that way. “Saint, I missed you so much,” she shouts and Draco notices the other children moving forward. All pressing to their father, all ready to tell him how much they miss him. Potter’s a snotty mess as he accepts their love. Kissing and hugging each of them a thousand times, hoping to assure them he will never again leave. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” he chants, and Sirius is the one who keeps chanting back,  _ S’otay, Sain, lub you.  _

 

*

 

The children don’t want to let their father out of their sight, but Potter keeps assuring, “I will be the same old me in the morning. Take yourselves to bed. There is someone who misses me more.” 

 

“Gross,” Polaris mutters. Regulus shoves him for his cheek, then drags his brother away while calling out  _ goodnight _ . 

 

“Night,” Leonis grins, nuzzling his head into Potter’s palm while Lyra clings to Potter’s leg. 

 

“I want to sleep with you guys,” she cries and Potter’s eyes are fond when he bends to lift her. 

 

“Tomorrow, I promise, I will build a nest in the family room and we will all sleep in the floor.” 

 

“You lot will,” Draco frowns, “I’m too old for sleeping on floors.” 

 

Delphini laughs, “You’ve never slept on a floor, Dad.” Then she moves to take Lyra, “You can come with me, we can paint our nails and I’ll let you talk to Teddy when he rings at the Mirror.” 

 

“Teddy,” Lyra perks up. “Why didn’t he come stay the night?” She’s already forgotten her fathers. Silly thing. 

 

“Dad says it’s not proper to share a room until married,” Delphini replies loudly, as they all move away. Leonis in the direction of Polaris and Regulus’s room, and Lyra with her sister. Sirius is already fast asleep in his bed. 

 

“You know,” Potter murmurs, warm fingers going to the hem of Draco’s jumper. “We shared a bed for years before you finally let me marry you.” 

 

Draco huffs, but doesn’t push Potter away when he starts mouthing at Draco’s neck. “You want her to fuck Teddy in our house?” 

 

“Don’t be crass,” Potter reprimands with a teasing lilt. He lifts Draco easily, walking him to their room. “I just meant, it’s silly to have such a rule when they’ve already bought a flat together.” 

 

“I’m not ready for her to leave,” Draco admits as Potter lays him in their bed. 

 

“I’ll be here,” Potter assures.    
  


“Will you,” Draco counters. All the frustrations of the past three months pouring out of his throat, “Will you be here, or will be you a stranger wearing my husband’s skin and clothes?” 

 

Potter kisses him, gentle, sweet, assuring. “I will never leave you like that again.” Potter promises, even though they both know it is foolish to promise such a thing. Draco doesn’t care, however, he clings to the assurances he tastes on Potter’s tongue. 

 

“I missed you,” Draco admits. “I missed you more than I thought I could.” 

 

“Shhh,” Potter whispers. “I came back--I always will.” 

 

“If you’re lying I’ll kill you,” Draco promises with passion. 

 

Chuckling, Potter says, “Can’t have that now. It’s a sin to kill a Saint.” 

  
  
  
  



End file.
